


Come Home

by urcool91



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urcool91/pseuds/urcool91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dying is easy compared to what he'd been through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written long ago because I'm evil.

Dying was so easy compared to what he'd been through. Logically he knew that he was in horrible pain, but numbness had stolen over him almost as soon as the bullet had hit. In the distance voices were shouting, sirens were blaring, and bright lights flashed red and white.

Dying hurt less then every second of his life since Sherlock. It hurt less than the nightmares, less than the quickly hidden tears. It was better than having that part of him keep hurting every day because it had been torn open and stitched together so many times that it was just a mass of scar tissue, not even a real heart anymore.

Time must have been slowing, because the EMTs hadn't touched him yet. Or maybe they realized that he was going to die, he  _wanted_ to die, and it was better to let him die than waste time on someone who hadn't really been alive for three years.

He closed his eyes. Death was so close; he could almost hear the baritone voice saying his name, could almost feel the long fingers running through his hair. He lighted his chin, reaching for a kiss, but darkness claimed him before their lips could meet.

*

"John? John!" Sherlock tried to ignore the acid in his stomach and the bile at he back of his throat. Their lips were millimetres from touching, but it was already too late. John... John was...

"No!" He was frozen. Slowly the walls and shelves and files of his palace disintigrated as a possiblility became a fact. For once, Sherlock wished that he could escape the facts or ignore them like so many humans did.

This was not what was supposed to happen. He had  _had_ Moran, he had been positive, but one minute's delay had given the sniper a chance to fulfill his final order. John... was...

He sould have told John he'd survived. But how could he when a single slip meant death for the reason he even bothered with living? John made him feel  _alive_ in a way no case could. It wasn't something he could easily describe. It was just that... John was _good._ John was perfect. John was the angel he'd been on the side of, and now he'd failed to protect the only thing in the world that mattered.

John... was... dead. Water flowed down his face, though it wasn't raining. It wasn't just his heart that was shattering, it was his everything, his soul, because John had been the one to show him he had a soul, that there were some lines he would never cross, not even for a case.

He bled. He cried. His tears mixed with their blood on the pavement, the blood of his friend, his  _only_ friend, as he clutched the cooling body of John Watson to his chest.


End file.
